


What Colds Are For

by komorebirei



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Bittersweet, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, LadyNoir - Freeform, MLB for BLM, Minor Angst, Post-Relationship, Pre-Relationship, Romance, Sickfic, adrienette - Freeform, post-reveal, pre-reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:48:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25889104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/komorebirei/pseuds/komorebirei
Summary: or: five times Chat Noir got sick, and one time Ladybug did.An anonymous commission for MLB for BLM.
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug
Comments: 45
Kudos: 271





	What Colds Are For

**Author's Note:**

> **Trigger warnings:** brief mentions of nausea, panic attack, and memories of violence (strangling). Nothing at all graphic, though.
> 
> This fic ended up much longer than I intended. Probably not what the commissioner expected when they requested a Ladynoir sickfic, but I hope they (and you) like it anyway.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** I may have taken liberties with the definition of 'sick.'

_i. boy_

“I think this was a _bat_ idea,” Chat Noir remarks as they dangle upside-down from Ladybug’s yo-yo, making an arachnid descent toward the target window on the thirty-second floor of Montparnasse Tower. He enunciates the “t” in _bat_ to make it clear that he’s making a pun.

Ladybug rolls her eyes. “Do you have a better plan?”

“Oh, no, my Lady! I’m sure it’ll work! It’s a clawless—ahem, _flawless_ plan,” Chat reassures in a slightly-congested lilt, “but my sinuses don’t exactly agree at the—” He stops abruptly and sucks in a breath, long and deep, his eyes closing in the process.

Ladybug averts her face. “Chat!” One hand is gripping the taut yo-yo string, the other wrapped tightly around her partner’s waist, and there’s nothing she can do to shield herself from—

He sneezes loudly, and Ladybug feels a generous spray of moisture on her cheek.

“Eww!” she cries.

“Cat help it, sorry,” he says. “Doe pud idteded for once.” He tightens his knees hooked around hers to free his fingers and wipe Ladybug’s cheek with the back of his hand. She sticks her tongue out in a comical expression of disgust.

Not long after, they come to a stop in front of a large window.

“This is the floor,” Ladybug announces with certainty as she peers inside, recognizing a stuffed monkey cabinet topper from the amateur video uploaded to the Ladyblog. “Will you do the honors, Chaton?”

“Cadaclysb,” Chat mutters, touching the glass, which crumbles and grants them entrance.

They flip inside and Chat rubs his cheekbones in relief as the pressure in his head alleviates.

Ladybug notices, of course, and reaches out without thinking to touch his forehead. Even through the barely-there material of her gloves, she can feel that he’s warm. “You know,” she admonishes, frowning, “you’re _allowed_ to stay home if you’re sick.”

“And leave you to fight alone, my Lady?” Chat looks displeased. “Never.”

Ladybug purses her lips, refusing to give any indication that she finds her partner’s devotion sweet. Even though his voice comes out clearer now that he’s properly on his feet, the slightly feverish rosiness to his cheeks draws her concern. Yet, it isn’t only concern that has her watching his face. What is it about blushing cheeks that makes a person so irresistible to look at?

Realizing she should say something, she clears her throat. “This is no time for flirting, Chat Noir! The akuma must have moved to another floor. Let’s finish up quickly so you can get home and rest.” She clenches her yo-yo tighter and tears her eyes away from him to scan the tops of the cubicles for any signs of movement.

“Aww, my Buguinette’s worried about me?” Chat teases.

Warmth prickles up Ladybug’s neck. “Maybe I just want you to get well so you don’t slow me down,” she quips, taking off in a sprint past abandoned desks toward the entrance to the hall. She doesn’t look back, but she hears him follow.

It’s the first time she’s seen Chat sick, and it’s unexpectedly… weird. She tries to banish images from her mind of Chat in bed, drinking soup, discarding used tissues in the empty bowl because the waste bin is too far. His mother coming in occasionally to check on him and bring medicine. Normal boy things. Would he watch television shows to pass the time? Surf the internet? Read a book?

A ruckus sounds from down the hall, and Ladybug realizes she’s gotten lost in contemplating _Chat’s civilian life,_ of all things. She’s made a point never to dwell on it before, and she doesn’t want to start now.

Forcefully, she steers her mind toward safer topics—the akuma prowling around inside Montparnasse Tower and the hunches she wants to test before summoning her lucky charm. She won’t let a silly cold open Pandora’s box.

—

_ii. priorities_

By the time Chat Noir shows up, Ladybug’s Lucky Charm is already in the air, dissolving into millions of magic ladybugs that shoot off throughout the city—righting vehicles, repairing dents in buildings, transporting citizens hither and thither. As Ladybug spots him emerging from a nearby alley into the deserted avenue, her exhaustion peels back to make way for pent-up frustration bubbling to the surface.

“Where were you?” she demands as he makes his way toward her, looking droopy and repentant. “Didn’t you text me half an hour ago that you were on your way?”

“Sorry, my Lady,” he croaks, and she notices his voice is deeper and rougher than usual. He walks gingerly, shoulders hunched and arms crossed as if he’s cold, and Ladybug realizes his posture and slow movements might not be a mere expression of apology after all. “Took me longer than I expected to find you.”

He omits the fact that he spent a good chunk of time in an alley, crouched over a scavenged plastic bag as he wrestled with a bout of nausea.

When Ladybug sees Chat’s sallow complexion and the pallor of his lips, worry forms a pit in her stomach and her indignation changes its course. “Are you sick? Why didn’t you just tell me that in the first place? You didn’t have to come.”

“It’s just a cold.” He swats his hand dismissively. “Didn’t you need me?”

“Obviously not!” Ladybug scowls, returning her yo-yo to her waist as her earrings bleat out their warning. He _clearly_ isn’t in any condition to fight and should have stayed home. Doesn’t he have common sense?

Chat’s ears and tail droop even further. “Oh,” is all he says.

_“No!_ I didn’t mean it like that,” Ladybug backpedals, waving her arms frantically. “I meant—it’s too late, anyway! Battle finished. I can’t _believe_ you came all the way out here when you’re so sick!”

Chat swallows in a way that makes Ladybug nervous. “How could I just stay at home and watch you on television?” he asks in a quiet, shaky voice.

“—That’s it, I’m taking you home,” Ladybug says, cheeks prickling with dread. She doesn’t know why, but seeing him so sick is making _her_ feel sick.

“Home?” Chat repeats, his voice tinged with a mixture of confusion and possibly hope, though it’s difficult to tell when he’s so far from his usual self.

Ladybug groans. “I mean, I obviously can’t take you _home._ Won’t you at least let me take you… _close_ to your home?”

Chat looks at her with a sunken-eyed expression, his shivering seeming to intensify. “Are you _sure_ you want to do that?”

“Why not?” Ladybug narrows her eyes. “Even if I bring you to a particular area, it’s not like I’ll know which house is yours.”

“Um…” Chat’s eyes dart to the side and he bites his lip, then shrugs helplessly. “I guess.”

Ladybug takes a step closer.

“Wait, no,” Chat says, stepping back, then mutters to himself, “What was I thinking?”

“What do you mean ‘no’?” Ladybug challenges, placing her hands on her hips.

“You don’t have to take me home. I’m fine!” Chat runs a hand through his hair, and Ladybug sees a sheen of sweat on his forehead glisten in the afternoon sunlight.

“You don’t seem fine,” she says, brow crinkling with concern. Her earrings beep again. Two more minutes, but that’s plenty of time to travel by yo-yo. “Come on, I need to hurry.” She holds out her hands in invitation.

Chat eyes her, thinking of how nice it would be to let her gather him up in a bridal carry, bury his head into her comforting shoulder, and let her take away the burden of pushing his aching body homeward—but he shakes his head and shuffles back another step. “I’ll go home by myself. I’m sorry I was too late to help.”

“Stop worrying about that—the battle’s over! Now it’s time to worry about you.” A pout forms on Ladybug’s lips. “Why don’t you want me to help? You _know_ I’m strong enough to carry you.”

“Oh, I have no doubt, Buguinette.” A laugh bubbles up Chat’s chest, along with a wave of something else, and he stops abruptly, putting a clawed hand over his mouth.

“Chat, are you okay?” Ladybug hisses, stepping forward in an attempt to close the distance between them, but Chat evades her again.

“You know what? You’re right. It was a bad idea for me to come,” he says against his fingers. “I don’t want _ma Lady_ to become _malade._ ” He lowers his hand and grins weakly, earning a glare from Ladybug.

“Chaaat,” she whines, a mixture of ambiguous irritation and worry swirling in her chest. “Hurry and go home then! I won’t be able to stay anyway, if we keep stalling.”

“Okay, okay.” Chat salutes before hugging his arms to his chest once again.

Ladybug watches him extend his pole and deposit himself gingerly on a rooftop. She knows it’s best this way, even if she hates that she can’t do more to help him. She knows she should look away, but her eyes trail after him in apprehension when he stops after a few paces, hand pressed to his mouth, and slowly lowers himself to his knees.

Should she go to him?

He recovers slightly and stands to continue on his way, coaxing a sigh of relief from Ladybug’s lips.

Only when Ladybug’s earrings beep again does she swing to a hidden place to detransform. Realization socks her in the gut as she feeds Tikki a cookie, so lost in thought she barely notices the kwami’s prattle.

Her judgment was compromised. She almost risked finding out his identity. If she caught his stomach bug and got sick, too, Paris would temporarily lose both its heroes.

Too many risks—but her first and only concern was to reduce his suffering. The risks didn’t seem to matter.

This, she now knows, is the danger of caring too much.

—

_iii. proxy_

When Chat Noir complains of a scratchy throat one evening, Ladybug realizes there _is_ a way to show him she cares and make him feel better. She knows how happy he is when she accepts one of his gifts, so how much happier would he be if _she_ gave him one?

“Here,” Ladybug says on their next patrol, holding out an unprinted brown paper bag toward Chat Noir.

Chat places a hand on his chest and gasps dramatically, which triggers a peal of coughs.

“Chat,” Ladybug reprimands, “maybe you should go easy on your lungs.”

When his coughing finally dies down, Chat inquires, “Do my eyes deceive me, or is this a gift for _me,_ my Lady?”

“Hmm… I don’t know if I’d call it a _gift,_ but I did prepare it for you.” Ladybug suddenly feels nervous about whether he’ll appreciate the contents, or be disappointed, expecting something else. “Sorry about the boring bag. I figured something inconspicuous would be better.”

“Boring? How could anything you give me be boring?” He unfolds the top of the bag. “What is it?”

Ladybug watches with a faint smile as he peers inside, eyes widening with excitement. Reaching in, he pulls out an oversized, seemingly hand-painted mug, the design of which distracts him so much that he barely notices what’s stuffed inside it. The mug is all black, sculpted subtly into the shape of a green-eyed cat with a tiny mouth shaped like a sideways ‘three’—two triangular ears peeking above the lip, one outlined paw lifted to show pink pads, tail curling out and up to form the handle.

“It’s purrfect,” he gushes. “Where’d you find this?”

“I ordered the plain ceramic mug online and painted it myself,” Ladybug explains. “Look.” She reaches over to turn the mug in Chat’s hands, to expose the back. Right next to the base of the handle, there’s a little green paw print, like the one on his ring.

Chat Noir lets out a strangled sound that might have been a squeal if not for his inflamed throat. “I _love_ it, my Lady,” he breathes, looking at her with eyes blown wide in adoration.

“Look what’s inside,” Ladybug says, feeling hot under his gaze. She points at the mug, stuffed with a bouquet of remedies.

He sifts through them with his fingers, making pleased noises as he takes inventory of the herbal and ginger teas, tubes of flavored honey, pack of tissues, cough drops, vitamin-C infusers, tube of Vicks Vaporub, and—

“Flash drive?” Chat lifts the thin black object out of the mug.

“Just a playlist of some piano music, mostly from k-dramas,” Ladybug answers. “I don’t know if you’d like my taste in music, but—um, I think the songs are relaxing! Sometimes I have nightmares or trouble falling asleep when I’m sick, so I figured—if the same thing happens to you, they might help?”

The idea of Ladybug curating a playlist of songs for him on the chance that they _might_ help makes Chat feel like he’s holding the secret treasure of the universe. He returns the flash drive to the mug with a lovelorn sigh.

“I’m sure you have excellent taste in music. I _do_ have a special fondness for the piano, after all.” He winks at her, and her eyes widen as if she’s caught off guard. “You’re the sweetest, Buguinette. Thank you! You didn’t have to do this, but—of course, I’m really happy you did.”

“I-it’s nothing!” Ladybug fiddles with a lock of hair, smiling. “I _would_ have made you Maman’s fresh ginger tea, but… um, obviously I couldn’t, so teabags will have to suffice for now. Sorry.”

Chat is about to tell her not to apologize when his brain latches onto her turn of phrase, and his lips stretch in a smirk. _“For now?”_

“Teabags will have to suffice, _period,”_ Ladybug corrects.

“I liked what you said at first.” Chat’s cheeks dimple as he grins at her. He brings a hand to his chin and mimes stroking an invisible beard. “I wonder how you see the future. Does it star a certain charming cat?”

“You wish.” Ladybug flicks his bell. “Anyway, see you later!”

“See me later?” Chat looks puzzled.

“I mean, there’s no akuma, so I figured you’d want to stay home and rest.” Ladybug says it as if it’s obvious. “I can handle patrol alone.” 

“Aww, but my Lady, I’m barely even sick,” Chat pouts. “Plus, it’s my pleasure to spend time with you. _Please_ don’t send me away.”

Ladybug narrows her eyes. He does seem energetic despite the congestion and redness of his nose, and he isn’t coughing too excessively. “Fine, but you can’t bring that bag with you.” She looks around, then points at a chimney stack. “Why don’t you hide it in there for now?”

“And risk someone nabbing my treasure? No way! I’m bringing it with me,” Chat insists.

“Who’s going to ‘nab’ it from a rooftop, Chaton?” Ladybug teases.

“Crows would steal anything!” Chat’s grip tightens on the paper bag.

“Oh, don’t be a specie-ist,” Ladybug chastises. “If you don’t want to be parted from your ‘treasure,’ why don’t you just take it home now?”

“But I enjoy your company more.” Before Ladybug realizes, her hand is in Chat’s, and he’s lifting it to his lips.

“Hey now!” she cries, slipping her hand free. “Keep your germs to yourself!” She wipes her fingers on her thigh.

“All right, my Lady,” Chat sighs. “I’ll sacrifice loving touches for the privilege of remaining in your presence.”

In spite of his jesting, his eyes are soft, letting her know that he _does_ regret the loss of contact. Ladybug has always pretended to be annoyed by his obvious affection, but this time, it makes her blush.

“How’s your throat?” she asks, changing the topic.

Chat shrugs. “Feels like I swallowed a handful of razors, but I’ll be fine.”

“I hope the tea helps.” Ladybug gives him a sympathetic smile. “Are you really bringing that on patrol?”

Chat grins and puffs out his chest. “This nimble cat can travel one-handed—and I’ll find a nook to hide it in if we run into any trouble.”

—

_iv. exposed_

When Ladybug arrives outside Adrien’s bedroom, the window is already open. She slips inside and retracts her yo-yo, then lets her gaze drift over to the one spot in the room where it’s almost too painful to look—his bed.

He’s awake, back propped against two pillows, covers drawn up to his chest. Bowing his head slightly, he coughs into an elbow draped in a loose, long-sleeved pajama shirt. He rakes back the bangs that have fallen into his face and looks up.

His gaze sears into hers, but Ladybug doesn’t look away.

“Hey,” Adrien says, voice raspy. Then, almost like he’s afraid to say it, he adds in a low murmur, “Marinette.”

Her heart clenches and her mouth dries up. Instead of responding right away, she comes over to his bed, slowly as if her ankles are bound with weights.

“How are you?” she asks, clasping her hands in front of her. She usually moves with confidence while wearing the suit, but all of a sudden she feels out of place, garish in red and black polka-dots.

Adrien sweeps his hand across the ledge beside his bed, and Ladybug hears the scrape of metal. He holds out his fist toward her.

Ladybug looks at it, then back at him. The question she doesn’t need to ask hangs in the air between them.

“This is what you came for, isn’t it?” He’s no longer making eye contact.

Suddenly Ladybug knows what’s in his hand, and tears prick the corners of her eyes. “No, Adrien. Why would I—” She shakes her head. She isn’t strong enough to address this topic right now, so she stops that train of thought before it can spill past her lips. “No. I just wanted to check on you,” she says in a soft voice. “You inhaled a lot of water.”

“I’m fine,” Adrien says. He retracts his hand. There’s a glimmer of silver as he turns the ring over in his fingers, and he almost puts it on out of habit, but hesitates and sets it back down on the bedside ledge.

Ladybug notices movement from the bookshelf—his kwami. The slitted green eyes meet hers, and he floats out to land on the back of Adrien’s hand.

“Kid, just put it on,” he says in a voice not meant for Ladybug to hear.

She nods in agreement anyway. “It’s okay, Adrien.”

Adrien opens his mouth as if to protest, but gives up and turns onto his side, coughing as he does so.

“Adrien…” Ladybug trails off, at a loss for words. What can she possibly say to him? How can she ask if he’s okay? She wishes she could offer her support, but what is that worth when nothing she can do would actually help? “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have even come.”

Adrien’s face is in profile, but Ladybug sees him close his eyes. Gently at first, then his brow comes down and he squeezes them shut, tears leaking out like painful nectar as he curls forward, grabbing fistfuls of comforter.

Ladybug can’t help but feel that she’s said the wrong thing.

Body moving ahead of her brain, she settles onto the side of the bed that he’s just vacated in rolling over, one knee folded under her. She places a hand on his back, aching on his behalf but at a loss for what to do.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she whispers. Everything is uncertain now, so she improvises, speaking half to him and half aimlessly into the air, hoping something she says will reach him. “I don’t mean that I shouldn’t—I mean, you _know_ I care about you, Chaton. Of course I want to be here. It’s just, I feel useless. I… I don’t know how to fix this. But I’m here for you, for all that’s worth. I’m sorry I can’t really do anything for you, but—I just want you to know you’re not alone.”

He doesn’t answer, just continues to cry silently into the comforter. Plagg lifts his head from where it’s nuzzled into Adrien’s forehead and meets Ladybug’s eyes in a silent plea. _Do something._

_But I can’t,_ Ladybug’s mind answers. Adrien is leaving—it’s his last night in an empty house, and tomorrow morning he’ll be off to live with his aunt in London. Yet, for all the clothing and belongings crammed tightly into them, the two suitcases lined up against the wall by the door are a relatively light burden compared to what must be going on in Adrien’s mind right now.

How can she give Adrien hope when he’s just learned that his mother hasn’t disappeared after all—that instead, she’s been lying in a coffin in the basement of his house, unable to be revived except by magic that would take another person’s life in exchange?

How can she assure Adrien everything will be fine when his father is sentenced to a lifetime in prison, after nearly drowning him in an attempt to pry that magic out of his hands at any cost?

The only silver lining is that Gabriel didn’t know, and immediately regretted what he had done as soon as the suit melted away to reveal his son.

But regret can’t erase memories. Regret can’t change the immovable past.

Ladybug reaches out to stroke back Adrien’s hair. He sighs, and the trembling in his back slowly ceases. She drags her fingers through his golden locks again, feeling him relax. He may not be ready to talk yet, but for now, it’s enough that he isn’t pushing her away.

The only thing more painful than watching him suffer is knowing she won’t be able to help him through it.

—

_v. incubation period_

Adrien is quiet as the automatic door glides closed behind them. Marinette slips her hand into his, closely attentive to how strongly he squeezes her hand back.

His grip is weak, so she tightens hers to compensate.

They begin the walk down the asphalt sidewalk from the visiting room to the outer gate. Marinette matches Adrien’s gait, letting him set the pace—but he begins to slow down, setting off alarm bells in Marinette’s mind.

She stops in her tracks and turns to him, reaching up to push his bangs aside so she can see his face. His skin is cold, and she notices his color is off. “Adrien, are you okay?”

Adrien’s chest visible heaves as he gulps down deep breaths. “I—n-not really.”

Marinette folds herself against his side, circling his waist with one arm and placing the other on his chest. She feels his weight pressing down on her shoulder as his knees weaken.

“Breathe, Adrien,” she says in a low voice, keeping her eyes trained on his even though his gaze is unfocused, seemingly looking into another dimension. She takes in a deep inhale through her nose, just as much to calm herself as it is to guide him.

His breathing is desperate, not in sync with hers, and his weight grows heavier.

“Oh, no,” Marinette mutters, arm tightening around his waist in preparation to lower him to the ground in case he passes out. She regrets not insisting that they ask Viktor to come along for the visit. But enough time has passed since Gabriel’s incarceration, and the media and harassers have stopped hounding Adrien every time he sets foot in Paris, so they both thought it would be safe to go without a bodyguard. A strong shoulder would have helped right now, but Marinette is strong enough to support her partner. “I’ve got you, Chaton.”

“It’s okay—I’m fine. I won’t pass out,” Adrien mumbles. He takes a couple of slow breaths, straightens, then begins to walk on his own again.

Marinette doesn’t pull away, but keeps her arm around his waist, heart pounding. “Are you _sure_ you’re okay?”

“Yeah, just… overwhelmed,” Adrien answers, shaking his head as if to clear the remnants of what came over him. “I know it’s been years, but I feel like I’ve been in denial or something, and seeing him brought everything back. Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Oh, no, don’t worry about me!” Marinette reassures, though she doesn’t deny that she was afraid for him. “You can talk to me, if you want. Or… you don’t have to, of course, but I’m here.”

She’s said the words so many times she feels like she’s nagging. It’s been years since Hawkmoth tried to drown Chat Noir in an aquarium tank to force him to give up his ring. Years since Adrien pulled the butterfly brooch from the supervillain’s chest and discovered it was his own father who had tried to kill him.

He’s never been ready to talk about it. He didn’t talk about it when he and Marinette wrote emails back and forth during his time in London. He didn’t talk about it when he came back to Paris for university and they shyly reconnected over long chats in cafés. He didn’t talk about it when they stayed up late bingeing anime and video games as roommates. Why would he be ready now? Marinette knows she should leave him alone and wait for him to open up on his own terms, but she’s worried about him.

“I just—have you ever looked at your own life and thought, ‘I can’t believe this is all real?’” Adrien asks, giving Marinette a weak smile that she knows is completely for her benefit, not a reflection of how Adrien is feeling.

Marinette thinks. “Yes, but not the same way,” she answers truthfully. She felt it the first time she transformed into Ladybug, and now and then, she feels it during akuma fights. A sense of dissociation and disbelief that the scene playing out in front of her is part of her actual life. She knows, however, that this is different.

“I guess I just feel trapped,” Adrien explains as they near the outer gate. The inner mechanisms shift with the sound of motors and crunching metal, and the heavy doors part before them, just wide enough to let them through. “Like—there’s never going to be a day when I wake up and Maman is back, and…” He trails off, and even though the doors are already open, he doesn’t budge.

Marinette takes the hand slung over her shoulder and gives the inside of his palm a gentle, encouraging kiss before stepping forward to lead him out of the compound.

As they pass through the gate, her eyes flick to the small camera near the top, watching them like a beady eye. It reminds her of the one at the Agreste mansion, and her stomach knots at the thought of what those walls were hiding, back when her greatest fear of Gabriel was that he’d take one look at her outfit and deem her unworthy to date his son.

The gate closes behind them, punctuated with the metallic churn of the lock shifting back into place, and they continue to walk down the long, straight path to the parking lot in silence. It feels like Adrien is working up the courage to say something, so Marinette waits.

“I can’t see him without thinking about the look on his face when he realized it was me,” Adrien says, his voice soft as the rustling of leaves. “It—he didn’t move right away, and his hand was still on my throat. I remember thinking, ‘This is it, my father is about to kill me.’ And then he let go.”

“Adrien…” Moisture wells up in Marinette’s eyes, but she wills her tear ducts to dry up. If she cries, he’ll try to comfort her and his window of vulnerability will close. She’s about to offer words of what feels like feeble comfort when he speaks again.

“No matter how much time passes, I—I won’t ever forget that. It just feels… inescapable. It hit me as we were leaving, and I just—I don’t know when things will feel normal again. Or if that’s even possible,” Adrien explains falteringly. “I’m pretty good at pretending—even to myself—that things are fine, but there are still a bunch of things I’ve been too in denial to think about until… well, until today.”

“Don’t rush yourself,” Marinette says in a low tone, rubbing circles into his palm with her thumb. “Healing takes time.”

“I guess you’re right,” Adrien says, then turns to her and cracks a smile. “Anyway! I’m sorry for freaking out back there. The, um—panic attack, or whatever that was.” He says it quickly under his breath, like he’s ashamed. “I’m okay now.”

“Are you really?” _Do you expect me to believe that when you just finished telling me how good you are at pretending?_ Marinette thinks, but doesn’t voice it out loud. He _is_ walking steadily now, though, and his breathing is normal. She separates from him slightly, unwinding her arm from his waist.

He stiffens and chases her with his gaze, as if to ask why she’s moving away.

With a reserved smile, Marinette takes his hand like before, letting her shoulder brush his arm to signal that she’s right there and isn’t going anywhere.

“Well, yeah. I mean—I feel fine,” he answers, shifting his eyes forward, and a tinge of pink entering his cheeks. “My body, that is,” he adds in a mutter.

Marinette can tell he’s embarrassed to lean on her, and to admit that he’s having trouble coping. She pushes against his shoulder gently with hers. “It’s okay to say you’re not okay,” she says.

After a beat of silence, Adrien licks his lips and whispers, “I’m not okay.” 

They walk side-by-side for a few seconds, taking a shortcut across the grass to where the car is parked. Despite the quietude of the scene, it feels like a breakthrough.

Since Adrien’s return to Paris last year, they’ve reflected on their superhero past and renegotiated their friendship into one of mutual trust, sealed by the things they’ve shared: laughter, interests, memories, secrets. Tender touches and kisses on cheeks or hands no longer create questions and tension between them, because they’re no longer afraid of losing one another, so defining their relationship has ceased to matter. Marinette doesn’t worry about confessing to him or having her feelings returned anymore—being in his life again and knowing he cares about her just as deeply as she cares about him is enough.

Yet, it’s been a long time since Marinette started to feel that in every interaction, Adrien is putting on a show for her. Of how much he’s changed during his time in London, how much happier he is now that he has more freedom, how _okay_ he is.

Today, that finally changed.

“He failed,” Adrien starts as they near Marinette’s red Volkswagen Beetle. “After all that, he couldn’t get Maman back, and now he’s in prison. The whole time we were at the window, I just felt like he’d already given up and couldn’t see the point in talking to me…”

They stop beside the car. Marinette takes Adrien’s other hand with her free one, so now they’re standing toe-to-toe, hands clasped.

The look in her eyes assures him that what he’s saying now is the most important thing on earth, that there’s no rush to wrap up the conversation.

“... because I represent that failure,” Adrien goes on to explain. “I stood in his way— _I_ had him locked up. The fact that I’m alive and willing to put work into fixing our relationship means _nothing_ to him. I’m not enough. I feel like I’ve _never_ been enough for him. I wasn’t back then, and I’m still not now. I’m not—” Adrien’s voice breaks and he stops to swallow.

Marinette lets go of his hands and wraps both arms around him in a tight embrace. His heartbeat thunders in her ear as his arms close around her, hesitantly at first, then with a trembling desperation.

“He’s a fool,” Marinette says, teeth gritted, brow furrowed against the hot, angry tears that she can’t hold back anymore. “He’s too stupid to realize how lucky he is. Even if he’s lost everything else, he still hasn’t lost _you_. That, and the fact that you’re willing to visit him—it’s more than he deserves.”

Adrien doesn’t answer, but his back rises and falls as he sucks in a breath, then lets it out again in a long sigh.

“You’re not just ‘good enough,’ for him, Adrien,” Marinette murmurs, cheek pressed against his collarbone. “You’re _too good,_ but he doesn’t know what to do with that and how to be a decent father—or even a decent human being. _He’s_ the problem, not you. Don’t blame yourself for his shortcomings.”

“I’ll try not to,” Adrien says quietly.

Marinette pulls away, stands on tiptoe to graze a kiss against his cheek, then unlocks the car with a beep. Once they’re seated, Marinette puts a hand on his thigh and gives it an affectionate rub. “I’m proud of you,” she says.

Adrien lifts her hand and kisses the base of her fingers, beside the ridge of her knuckles. “Thanks, Buguinette,” he whispers, the corners of his mouth lifting in a weary smile. “For coming along, and… for believing in me. You’re my everything.”

Marinette buries her fingers in his hair, cupping the back of his head, and pulls him closer until their foreheads touch. “You’re my everything, too.”

They hold that position, eyes closed, anchored in one another. Adrien is breathing softly, peacefully.

Unbidden, a flicker of longing wells up in Marinette as she breathes in the familiar scent of his cologne, noticing the way his downy hair tickles her cheekbones. She’s gotten so used to suppressing her romantic feelings that she’d never act on them, but a thought meanders through her mind: _How he would react if I kissed him now?_

No. Now would be the _worst_ time to kiss him. How could she even think such a thought?

Marinette mentally slaps herself and begins to withdraw, but the tip of Adrien’s nose brushes hers and she hears him inhale sharply. When she looks up, golden lashes catch the light as his eyelids open at the same instant, and his irises gleam like sun-washed spring leaves when their eyes meet.

They gaze at one another, too close to see clearly except to absorb the play of light and shadow over their features and to come to a mutual, unspoken understanding. Eyes sliding closed again, Marinette feels the angle of Adrien’s jaw shift in the palm of her hand, and she tilts her chin upward to meet him halfway.

A million nerve endings tingle as their lips brush, soft and dry, but warm and infinitely tender. Just a single, daring exploration. They move apart, holding their breaths.

“Sor—” Adrien begins, but Marinette already knows what he’s going to say, and she cuts him off by depositing another quick, gentle kiss on his lips before pulling away, cheeks flushed.

_“Don’t_ apologize,” she says. _“I’m_ not apologizing.”

“Do you—should we talk about that?” Adrien breathes, as if in a daze.

“When you’re ready,” Marinette murmurs. “We don’t have to… not yet, anyway.”

In that moment, significant yet strangely mundane on the stage of superheroes and villains, she feels the weight of all that has happened to them, between them. They’re different people now. Now, they can handle uncertainty. They can dwell comfortably in the grey area. They trust one another enough to wait.

—

_and: what colds are for_

The first thing Marinette notices when she wakes up is the tightness in her throat and the familiar burn when she swallows. _Great,_ she thinks groggily. _I’m sick._ As her lucidity returns, she recalls waking up coughing several times during the night.

Groaning in displeasure, she stretches her limbs toward the other side of the bed like a flower seeking sun—only to find it empty.

A vague sense of wounded confusion coaxes her eyes open, and she double-checks her mental calendar. It’s Saturday, and Adrien isn’t supposed to have anything scheduled today.

_He’s with the kids,_ Marinette reasons. _I must have overslept, and they’re already up._

Rebelling against gravity and the sleep laid thick on her bones, Marinette rises to a sitting position and fumbles for her phone on the nightstand to check the time. _Ten-oh-three!_ Her eyes widen, and the knee-jerk disappointment at Adrien’s absence dissipates—they’re definitely up by now. Why didn’t he wake her sooner?

She takes a deep breath of relief, but her protesting lungs spasm with another coughing fit. She doubles over, burying her face in her elbow. From her hunched-over position, she registers the sound of the door opening, and the sound of high-pitched voices spills into the room. Recovering from the fit, she looks up to see a beaming Adrien toting a wooden breakfast tray into the room.

“Good morning, Maman!” five-year-old Emma squeals, bounding into the room past Adrien’s legs.

“Maman!” Hugo echoes, starting after her. Adrien puts out a leg to stop the two-year-old, and he hangs back, fisting a dimpled hand around the fabric at his father’s hip.

“Stay here, Hugo. And Emma,” Adrien cautions gently, “Maman is sick. You shouldn’t get too close.”

“But I want to hug her!” Emma demands, bouncing off the balls of her feet, elbows resting on the foot of the bed. The whole bed shakes and pants a tired _whumph-whumph-whumph_ under the force of her excitement.

“Listen to your father, Emma.” The words scrape like sand across Marinette’s vocal cords.

Adrien comes inside and places the tray down on the bedside table carefully before turning his attention to his daughter. “You can hug Maman all you want once she’s better, but you won’t be able to play and see your friends if you get sick. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

Emma pouts with big, doleful eyes and shakes her head. “How come _you’re_ allowed to be here with Maman? Won’t _you_ get sick?”

“Daddy’s special duty,” Adrien explains. “It’s my job to take care of Maman, even if it puts me in danger.” He winks at Marinette, who narrows her eyes and presses her mouth into a line at the veiled reference.

Emma’s frown deepens. “That’s not fair.”

Adrien kneels and holds out his arms, which Emma reluctantly walks into without making any effort to hug him back. Over Adrien’s shoulder, Marinette can see Hugo peeping into the room from an obedient distance at the door frame.

“Wait outside for me, okay, Little Bug?” Adrien kisses the top of Emma’s head.

“I’m not ‘Little Bug,’ I’m Emma,” she grumbles.

“All right, Miss _Emma,_ go wait for me in the kitchen with your brother. I’ll be there in five minutes to make your banana pancakes.”

Emma’s face brightens into a dazzling smile. “With whip cream?”

“Of course!” Adrien beams back. “And strawberries.”

“Bananas _and_ strawberries?” Emma begins to jump again.

“Banna an’ stawbewwy!” Hugo parrots from the doorway, laughing.

“That sounds _berry_ delicious!” Emma grins. “Get it? _Berry?_ —‘Cause bananas are berries, too,” she adds in a know-it-all tone.

Marinette barks out a phlegmy laugh.

“You’re absolutely right—and nice pun. That’s my girl.” Adrien holds out his fist for Emma to bump. She taps it, smirking slightly. “But did you know strawberries _aren’t_ berries?”

Emma’s face crumples into a look of confusion. “They’re not? But they’re called straw _berries._ ”

“True, but they’re not berries,” Adrien answers, fighting a smile at Emma’s offended expression. “I’ll show you a video about it later. Now go on.”

Emma nods and skip-dances to the doorway to take Hugo’s hand. Once the children’s voices fade down the hall, Adrien picks up the tray and sets it in Marinette’s lap.

“Breakfast in bed? How did you even know I was sick?” Marinette asks in a hoarse whisper, not trusting her voice to come out sounding normal.

“You were coughing all night.” Adrien smooths her hair and plants a kiss on the top of her head.

“Oh no, I woke you up?” Marinette moans. “I’m sorry!”

“Don’t worry, Buguinette, I slept well enough,” Adrien reassures, his bright smile showing no tiredness.

“I hope so.” Marinette returns the smile, tinged with apology. “Thanks for breakfast, Chaton… I love you so much.”

“I love you too, my Lady. You know spoiling you is my favorite pastime.” He lifts her chin for a kiss, but she turns her head away.

“Germs,” Marinette reminds him. She lets out a couple of closed-mouth coughs, holding onto the edges of the tray to avoid upsetting it.

“Your nose, then?”

Marinette turns her face up indulgently, a smile teasing her lips, and crinkles her nose at him.

He plants a kiss on the tip.

Marinette sniffles and rubs her nose with the back of her hand, then gasps when she catches sight of the steaming beverage on her breakfast tray, morning sunlight warming its familiar amber hue. “Is this Maman’s ginger tea?”

“Yup, with real ginger! I may have asked her for the recipe,” Adrien boasts. “Remember the first time you said you wanted to make it for me?”

A sparkle enters Marinette’s eyes as she recalls the words she spoke what feels like a lifetime ago. “You remember that?”

“How could I forget such a kind gift from my cute little Buguinette? You know, back then, I never thought you’d actually make real ginger tea for me someday. I didn’t think I’d ever be so lucky.”

“Don’t remind me of what an idiot I was back then.” Marinette puts a hand over her eyes and shakes her head lightly.

Adrien pulls down her hand by the wrist. “Hey now, don’t say mean things about my wife. You’ve never been an idiot.”

Marinette smiles, but he can see the strain behind it. He knows the things she blames herself for, and what retrospect has taught her could have been avoided, even though it’s been years since she’s stopped mentioning them.

“Besides,” Adrien says, sliding his hand from her wrist to her fingertips and drawing it to his lips. He brushes them reverently across her knuckles, as if a kiss could extract the venom of regret. “Now I get to make ginger tea for you. That’s what matters.”

Marinette pulses her fingers around his, a syllable of their wordless communication— _I know you know what I’m thinking, and I appreciate you_.

He squeezes back. “You know what, Buguinette? I’m really happy.”

“Happy that I’m sick?” Marinette teases, even though she knows that isn’t what he means. “Sadist.” The playful accusation is as soft as if she’s called him _Darling._

“Happy that I get to take care of you. All of you. My _family,”_ Adrien sighs contentedly.

Marinette breathes out a fond laugh that comes out half like a cough, but the pain in her throat doesn’t bother her anymore. “I’m happy, too, my love.”

“Papa, pacake!” a small voice pipes from the door, and Hugo comes running inside to encircle Adrien’s thigh like a tree trunk. He looks up imploringly, eyes wide. “Pacake time?”

A giggle accompanies the appearance of Emma’s impish face at the doorframe, revealing that she probably sent her brother in.

“Coming, kiddos.” Adrien hoists Hugo onto his hip. “Enjoy your breakfast, Lovebug. I’ll check in on you later.” He winks.

“Enjoy your pancakes, babies,” Marinette coos, blowing Hugo a kiss and smiling at Emma.

Only after Adrien disappears down the hall, leaving the door open, does Marinette turn to her breakfast. A cheese danish, a halved baguette with just the right amount of blackberry jam, and a large strawberry cut into finely-sliced hearts, along with the steaming mug of ginger tea.

Lifting the mug, she takes a sip, fresh ginger hitting her swollen throat with a soothing burn. _Plagg would have loved a bite of the danish,_ Marinette thinks with nostalgia as she reaches for the pastry next.

It’s been ten years since Adrien returned the silver ring to its box for a hopefully-long hibernation, and seven since he replaced it with another. Marinette twists the wedding ring on her left hand—a narrow band of channel-set princess-cut diamonds. She’s eating alone, head cloudy with congestion and throat burning as if she’s swallowed fire, but her family’s voices waft down the hall into the room like a comforting fragrance, and there’s nothing she would change.

As she sinks her teeth into the crunchy outer edge of the danish, Marinette realizes how grateful she is for the pain she and her partner have shared.

Maybe colds are just excuses to make breakfast in bed for loved ones.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! <3


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